


A Cat's Meow

by Breadcrumbz



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Cats, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breadcrumbz/pseuds/Breadcrumbz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke always wondered why a certain mage had turned his cellar into a ‘secret lair’ instead of just moving in like anyone else would. Having lived down there for two months now, Hawke had expected Anders to have grown out of the curious habit, yet the mage remained and didn’t show any signs of moving into the perfectly functional estate above his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cat's Meow

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a practice at writing description which I decided to upload as I quite like it. There’s no major plot to this, really, but I wanted to practice writing Anders and Hawke for the first time so that’s why this ficlet exists. Hopefully I'll write something more serious for this fandom eventually!

The cellar wasn’t exactly what Hawke expected when Anders asked to move in with him. He’d succeeded in making the sparse expanse of cold stone habitable in the hapdash style he was known for - a medical clinic in the unlikely environment of a sewer being his greatest achievement. Somehow, Anders had the ability to make anywhere charming. Or, at least, less unbearable.   
  
Really, Hawke should have known that Anders announcing his plans for a new residence didn’t mean that the mage would settle with sharing his bedroom.  
  
“Isn’t it rather... uncomfortable living down here?” The pause was an attempt to come up with a decent adjective for the situation and, upon deciding, he realised it was probably better not to say anything at all. Anders smiling over his manifestos confirmed that fact, as the man’s last home must have smelt much worse than the cellar. Mildew, wine and old wood was an obvious improvement to... well.  
  
“It probably looks odd to you,” Anders began, standing up from the old desk Hawke had helped him move down here, “but it’s familiar. I’ve lived like this for ten plus years, old habits die hard, etcetera etcetera.” His smirk was joined by a thin eyebrow curving upwards. Hawke folded his arms tight across his chest, preparing himself for the theatrics to come. An enthusiastic Anders always tended to invent the oddest of tales - even Varric couldn’t believe some of the things that left his mouth. Perhaps he had a mental affliction of some kind.  
  
“If you think about it, this place is almost like my secret lair! My own bachelor pad!” Anders’s hands moved audibly with his words, motioning to the simple cot he had been using as his bed. “Take this for example. Now, to you it might seem like an uncomfortable place to sleep - but I never have to make it! Simplistic living requires less structure and less organisation. I have tonnes of free-time due to there being no housework.” Proud, Anders mimicked Hawke’s stance and folded his own arms.  
  
A single sentence kept repeating in Hawke’s mind and it irked him. “But I have a servant!” His arms fell to his sides as he swayed on his feet a little. If there were any seats which hadn’t collected damp, he probably would have sat down and buried his head in his hands. Sometimes, Hawke wondered why he was in love with a man so ridiculous. “I haven’t made a bed in years.”  
  
Anders rolled his eyes, which were still shining with pride. “Ahh, but do you have a secret lair? You have to admit that this place looks pretty daring.” The only way Hawke was going to get out of here without questioning Anders’s oddities once again was to humour him. Thankfully, this was a skill he’d learnt quickly - particularly when it came to the man’s interest in cats.  
  
Looking around properly for once, Hawke took in the sight of the regular cot, crates and desk which he associated with Anders’s so-called ‘secret’ lair, but he also noticed a few things that were easily missed with a quick glance.   
  
There were books - even more than you'd find Merril’s house - stored in almost every alcove with the largest gathering close to his bed. Candles illuminated the dark corners, making the room appear smaller than it actually was, however this made the cellar seem more like a place to live than an endless cave used to store food through the summer months. Again, there were more candles placed around his bed - hinting at the mage’s habit of reading (or even writing) before bed.  
  
Slight dustings of straw littered the cobbled floor (and Hawke didn’t want to know where that had come from) alongside the occasional feather which had detached from the many he wore over his shoulders each day. Considering the floor, Hawke wondered how he could have missed a few rugs haphazardly laid out. Haphazard. That word described Anders far too well to be of any comfort.  
  
Due to the extreme number of papers on the rickety desk, Hawke was worried it was going to collapse when Anders leant against it and instinctively jumped forward to catch the not-falling mage. It earnt him and odd look before an amused chuckle - soft and brief. The man rarely lunged into hysterical fits of laughter, despite his sense of humour, but Hawke cherished each one he made regardless of how short. He’d been tempted to count them, but Isabella had found his original tally chart and promptly told everyone else. Anders had turned the deepest shade of red Hawke had ever seen on the pale man, and understood that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea.  
  
Above his desk hung a tapestry adorning the Hawke coat of arms. If he were honest, Hawke had no idea why Anders wanted one in his room but it hadn’t been too much hassle to give him one from the lobby. Hawke was thankful it hadn’t been time-consuming, as the mural didn’t suit the room in the slightest. It radiated pride and nobility with its vibrant red and gold silks, yet it was in a room so murky and bleak that, if Hawke hadn’t given it to Anders himself, he could have sworn a ruffian had stolen it and had placed it there to show off.  
  
Thinking about it, if Anders had shared his bedroom then the man would most likely look as out of place as the mural did. He was old, regardless of how childish or youthful he acted, and the years had worn at him - his porcelain skin had begun to crack, his hands stained with ink, but Hawke thought that made him seem more human than his tales made him out to appear. Anders always wore his hair half-up in order to keep the hair out of his face when he worked, however there was always an errant hair despite the effort. The same effort went into maintaining his facial hair, but his blades were dull and his hair grew quickly so Anders always had stubble.  
  
Despite this, Anders always felt soft. His hair was in good condition and the stubble didn’t sting, breaking the illusion of ruggedness his appearance always produced. His robes had been ripped in battle countless times, though Anders always took the time to sew them - glum expressions on his face as he did. Hawke imagined that was due to the guilt Anders had whenever he spent any time looking after himself, especially when others out there were worse off than him.  
  
Anders coughed lightly, catching Hawke’s attention. “Thought I told you to examine the lair, not me.” He said, trying to appear unimpressed but the corners of his mouth were too high to pull it off: Hawke counted that as another smile. The mage didn’t understand what Hawke saw in him and Hawke didn’t understand how Anders didn’t see how captivating he was. His eyes were a fiery hazel, allowing a peek-hole into just how passionate he really was under the threadbare exterior. Reading some of his poems - the ones he only allowed Hawke’s eyes to see - could prove how many emotions he kept at bay. Of course he had to be passionate. You wouldn’t become a renegade if you didn’t truly believe in what you were doing. Believe it or not, the passion wasn’t what drew Hawke to Anders in the first place: it was his compassion.  
  
Just watching him work in his clinic and how far he went to help others could mesmerize Hawke for days. The man was so selfless and would take time to reassure everyone when most healers wouldn’t give the refugees in Darktown the slightest glance, let alone-- An embarrassed laugh from Anders stopped Hawke’s chain of thought. Ah. Yes. He didn’t intend to get sidetracked like that - damn it Anders.  
  
Returning to look at the room, he focused on the crates off in the far corner next to the door which lead off to the vault. Anders’s medical supplies he used at the clinic were in there. Considering he no longer lived at the clinic, it was risky to leave his equipment there. If bandits broke in and stole them, then Anders likely wouldn’t forgive himself. Something at the base of the crate caught Hawke’s attention. Something so small that, if he hadn’t been looking closely, then he would have missed it. A small dish of some kind. Strange, considering Anders ate all of his meals upstairs with the rest of the household. He even ate upstairs when Fenris or Aveline visited, which had been a surprise seeing how he tended not to get along with the brooding elf or the woman he saw as the walking embodiment of the city guard. Confused, Hawke began to speak again.  
  
“Why is there a saucer down there? Can you not clean anything by yourse--” The noise that cut Hawke off explained it all. The saucer, the straw, the fact Anders opted to live in the cellar rather than the warm estate upstairs.  
  
It was a cat’s meow.  
  
Hawke turned to face Anders, who had a stunned look about him - eyes looking anywhere but at Hawke and shifting his weight slowly between his feet. “Anders.” Hawke accused, expression softening when he saw how genuinely worried Anders looked. “Is there something you’re not telling me? About, you know, odd noises?”  
  
“I-- No. There’s nothing. It’s just my lair.” He babbled, eyes occasionally looking beyond Hawke before swiftly darting back. For once, the man wasn’t being very subtle and his eyes were almost pleading. Shaking his head at his partner’s ridiculous behaviour, Hawke turned to look over his shoulder at the thing Anders had hidden poorly. There was a cat - small with cinnamon fur and green eyes - snuggled up on the hand-made pillow that had belonged to Anders’s mother. How he still had that was a mystery but Hawke couldn’t dwell on it for long as Anders piped up again. “Ok I know you said I couldn’t have a cat, but Hightown isn’t like Darktown - no one’s scared the stray cats away to remove temptation. I was making my way here one day and this one, he kept following me and I couldn’t tell it to shoo. So I figured I’d keep him down here as a secret. I really did miss having a cat around and he gets his food here before leaving to explore Lowtown, so he’s not technically in the house.”  
  
Before Anders could continue with his ramble, Hawke stopped him. “Anders.” The man was clearly getting worked up over the matter, so he placed a hand on Anders’s arm and rubbed small circles into the tense muscle. Anders sagged his shoulders, his standard look of misery crossing his features. Concerned, Hawke lent forward and placed a light kiss upon his forehead, thankful that Anders was leaning on the desk once more otherwise he would have struggled reaching it. “Shh, it’s fine. Really.”  
  
“...Are you going to make me get rid of him?” Anders mumbled, keeping his head down so Hawke didn’t have to see how pathetic he was being. After all, it was just a cat that had followed him home one day and wormed its way into his heart. Hawke sniggered to himself, the sound causing Anders to look up at him in agitation. “What’s so funny?”  
  
Hawke flicked his head, dismissing his previous laughter. “I’m just amused that this is the reason you wanted to live down here. I’ve been replaced with a cat, of all things.” He brushed a stray hair from Anders’s face. “Should have seen that one coming, really.” The wonderment on Anders’s face was another sight Hawke liked to note down.   
  
“You mean... You’re not mad? But you said that I couldn’t have cats! You made that clear!” Anders bristled, trying not to let his delight get the better of him. He soon calmed when he saw a glimmer of grief in Hawke’s eyes. That was something he never liked to see and Anders regretted letting the cat in now.  
  
“Do you want to know why I said that?” Hawke said, trying to hide his sorrow. It was a recent wound, but Hawke was the best out of the group (besides Isabella) when it came to hiding emotions so he would be peachy eventually. Anders wordlessly nodded, dread pooling in his stomach. He didn’t like where this was going, despite Hawke’s smile. “My mother was allergic to cats.”  
  
Anders broke into a grimace then. “I’ll get rid of it, I’m sor--” Hawke cut him off before he could apologise, shaking his head.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. I love cats.” Hearing Anders apologise for bringing up his mother didn’t sit well with him. The mage was always quick to blame himself, or a templar, but neither of them killed his mother - Hawke had been the one who got there too late. Maybe Anders knew Hawke blamed himself and wanted to make him stop too. “My mother’s dead, so why shouldn’t we adopt the cat?”  
  
Hawke could see the argument cross Anders’s mind, but the mage sighed and leant into Hawke’s embrace. Anders had seen how torn up Hawke had been over his mother’s death and didn’t want to keep on the subject too long. When she died, Hawke had spent hours staring into the fireplace without speaking a word and Anders didn’t know how to heal that kind of injury. With his mother gone, Hawke was alone - his entire family had left in the space of three years and Anders couldn’t help and that unsettled him more than he liked to admit. Brushing his fingers through Anders’s hair, Hawke smiled brightly. “Hey now, don’t look so glum. Varric’s invited us all to the Hanged Man tonight and you know everyone will be expecting to hear your _wonderful_ lute playing.” He teased, leading the mage up the stairs and out of the cellar which, he hoped, wouldn’t be Anders’s secret lair for much longer.  
  
“What did you name the cat then?”  
  
“Huh? Oh. Rincewind.”  
  
Anders didn’t know yet, but he was all Hawke had left.


End file.
